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I made a mental note to add this to my list of personalcommandments. I'd put it right after "Thou shalt not eatmore than two pints of ice cream in one night" and just before"Thou shalt never wear the correct size jeans." Prioritiesand all.
I opened the cabinet under the sink and stared at the rootof my problem. My newest commandment wasn't a resultof sudden regret at the loss of the photos. Instead it camefrom the fact that by stuffing pictures of the two-timingweasel down the disposal I had caused the sink to clog.
Little Kodak bits of my husband's head floated around thesink's stainless steel basin. I found an odd sense of peace seeingKevin Quinn drowning -- even one-dimensionally -- but Icouldn't risk Riley seeing the pieces. I fished them out andshoved them in the trash can.
I stared at the stack of prints I'd yet to destroy and pickedup the top one. It had been taken soon after I met Kevin. I'dbeen twenty-one and fresh out of college when OfficerKevin Quinn pulled me over for speeding. Being somewhatdesperate -- since I'd already gotten two tickets in the previoussix months -- I faked being sick. I still remember with startling clarity the mad dash I'd made toward the tree line,where I'd given a fair imitation of that Exorcist girl -- withoutthe head spinning, of course.
Officer Kevin let me off, but later that night showed up atthe off-campus apartment I'd shared with my cousin Anawith a pot of chicken soup.
Looking back, I should've taken the ticket.
We looked so disgustingly happy in the picture I washolding.
Kevin, the weasel, hadn't changed much in the last eightyears, at least physically. He was still one sexy piece o' man.Six foot, three inches. Short, jet-black wavy hair. Clear greeneyes. And a smile that made my knees go all spongy.
He'd been eight years older than me, a widower with aseven-year-old son and a boatload of baggage, but when helooked at me with those vivid green bedroom eyes, smiledthat mischievous smile -- I'd never had a prayer of escaping,heart intact.
Okay, I admit it. I hadn't wanted to -- until recently.
I looked down at my younger, naïve self. My motherliked to think all her kids looked like movie stars. Accordingto Mom, my younger sister Maria was the spitting imageof Grace Kelly. My older brother Peter? GeorgeClooney. And amazingly, there was some resemblance in aslightly out-of-focus way.
Mom, however, never specified who I looked like -- shejust kept telling me I had a face for the movies. Which left mewondering if I had more in common with that Exorcist girlthan just that incident with Kevin.
But I didn't think so. Or at least I hoped not.
Unlike my sister, I'd never be movie-star gorgeous. Shewas French baguette where I leaned toward ... pumpernickel.But I'd never minded. My heart-shaped face had itsown unique charm I've grown fond of during our twentynineyears of cohabitation.
As I looked at the picture, I realized I hadn't changedmuch since I met Kevin either. My shoulder-length brownhair was still styled in that same nondescript bob. My lipswere still too full, my smile too wide. Though they couldpass for brown most of the time, my eyes remained a darkmuddy green, but nowadays they had tiny lines creasingtheir corners.
Kevin had said I was beautiful.
And I'd believed him.
Until two days ago.
Sighing, I split the photo in two. Tucking my half into myrobe pocket, I dunked Kevin's half into the full sink, enjoyingit almost as much as I would dipping a Krispy Kremeinto hot chocolate. As I tried to figure out what to do aboutthe sink full of water, the phone rang.
I checked the clock. It was early.
"Hello?" I said with an edge to my voice that was sure tofrighten any telemarketers.
"Nina?"
Didn't sound like a telemarketer, and although the femalevoice sounded oddly familiar, I couldn't place it.
"Yes." My tone still warned that I was in no mood to buya time-share in Costa Rica.
"It's Bridget," she said. "Tim and I got your message andyour card. Thank you."
My mouth dropped open. I'd called and left a message onher machine the other day, but I hadn't expected her to callme back. Not for a while, at any rate. Not with all she hadgoing on.
I wrapped the phone cord around my finger. "I was sosorry to hear about Joe."
Bridget's father-in-law, Joe Sandowski -- "Farmer Joe,"as I used to affectionately call him -- was found dead in oneof his cornfields early last week. Ordinarily the death of aman as old as Joe wouldn't raise a plucked eyebrow, but apparently, according to the local paper, there had been something(which was never specified, and left inquiring mindswanting to know) found at the scene that indicated his deathhad been anything but natural.
"Thanks," Bridget said. "We're sorry too."
An irrepressible sadness tightened my throat. AlthoughI hadn't seen Joe Sandowski in years, he'd played a pivotalrole in my life. His love for the outdoors had rubbed off onme to the point where I'd gone to college for landscapedesign.
Soon after graduating I had opened my own run-of-the-milllandscaping business, which, through a quirky twist offate, two years ago had morphed into what it was now:Taken by Surprise, Garden Designs. TBS was one of a kindin this area of Ohio, in the country really. We specialized insurprise garden makeovers ...
A Hoe Lot of Trouble
Excerpted from A Hoe Lot of Trouble: A Nina Quinn Mystery by Heather Webber
All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
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